Chapter 7: Sovereign
1296 Words
Chapter 7: Sovereign
“Still failing to evolve, Aric? Honestly, it would be a kindness if you simply vanished—someone like you doesn’t deserve a seat at this table.”
The words came out like a sharpened blade out of the lips of Vira, dripping with venomous disdain.
Heads turned round the table, but no one ventured to pour oil on the fire.
It was much easier to imagine that Aric Blackthorn was a ghost, a shadow too dim to be worth attention.
But Vira, never to be satisfied, took it as a personal crusade to t*****e him, to stifle his life in the smoke of contempt.
But Aric made no reply.
His red eyes, smouldering like coals but obstinate, gazed straight before him, motionless and imperturbable.
His fingers lay at ease in his lap, prepared.
The calculated callousness roused wrath in Vira s keen brows, drawing them together in a close scowl.
She came forward, and her voice rose like a storm on the point of bursting.
What should we have expected? Thou art the son of that vile harlot. Nor was your uselessness ever doubted--”
“Kai.”
The cold sharp voice of shattered glass cut across the tension, and she was silenced like a whip c***k.
Vira turned her eyes on her husband, one of the Pulses, who glared at her with a warning sharp enough to cut steel.
Her tongue stumbled, words catching in her throat, until at last Aric spoke, low and cold, and the silence of the room was broken.
You want somebody to hear your whines, well crawl into another bed and find a more likely audience.
His voice was low, sharp,--like the winter wind that cuts through the bone.
He took their insults, the sneers and the cold shoulders in his stride.
But his parents--the only sacred line in this war of words--were untouchable.
His eyes were fixed on Vira, and cold as frost, and there was a storm in them, a storm that raged under that steady gaze.
The room itself held its breath, the air turned cold as everyone turned to stare at Aric in shocked silence.
His rare speech was a seismic shift, the shock rippling through the assembled bloodline.
Vira’s face drained of color, then bloomed crimson with fury.
The bastard!
Her lips trembled as she struggled to find words sharp enough to strike back.
“You—”
But before she could unleash her venom, the entire room froze as a sound fell like thunder, slicing through the thick tension.
Step.
Just one footfall, subtle yet impossible to ignore.
The sound echoed through the vast hall, a slow, measured drumbeat of inevitable war.
Step.
Step.
The slow, deliberate rhythm pressed into the hearts of every soul within.
BAM!
Guards and servants lining the walls dropped to their knees, foreheads grazing the polished floor in unbroken submission.
The footsteps grew louder, each strike hammering into their chests, accelerating heartbeats into frantic drums.
Creak.
The immense doors at the head of the chamber groaned open, revealing a figure whose presence stills the very air itself.
What Aric and all gathered felt boiled down to one overwhelming truth:
Power.
It crushed the chest, a tidal wave of authority that sucked breath from lungs.
Every head bowed lower, as if pulled by an invisible weight pressing down upon their shoulders.
Aric’s teeth clenched so tightly the harsh scrape echoed inside his skull.
In this room filled with scorn, he was the weakest among them all.
And yet the presence that had just entered enveloped everyone in the same oppressive gravity.
This was the power he hungered for.
The power of a Zenith.
Light from the grand chandeliers cascaded over the man who stepped forward with measured steps.
His hair was a deep crimson, nearly black beneath the glimmering light, his eyes twin infernos of blazing red that seemed to burn through the very air.
A compact, coiled frame thrummed with latent energy, the quiet promise of unleashed tempest.
And a cold, cruel smile tugged at the corners of lips that cared little for warmth or kindness.
This was Lucien Blackthorn, the Blood Sovereign of the Blackthorn Clan.
His footsteps were an unhurried death march, each one a sentence of silent judgment, an executioner’s indifferent procession.
His gaze sliced through the assembly with the sharpness of a razor, no soul daring to meet it or draw breath too loud.
He reached the throne-like chair at the head of the table and sank into it with effortless authority.
The room contracted, the suffocating silence dragging on like a noose tightening inch by inch.
Not a word escaped any lips; not a single head dared to lift in defiance or relief.
“Sit.”
His voice cracked like gravel grinding against stone, cold and final.
Without hesitation, the descendants and their consorts lowered themselves back to their seats as one, their movements taut and rehearsed.
Only the faintest rustle of fabric disturbed the stillness as hands found laps and eyes dropped low.
“Serve the food.”
The command cut through the air like a blade.
Maids moved with practiced efficiency, placing plates before each descendant before slipping back to their knees, heads bowed in reverent silence.
The Pulses, lords of the western territories, bore their masks of power, but here and now they were reminded: true power belonged to the Blood Sovereign alone.
Aric’s thoughts churned, the grim certainty sinking in—this dinner was no mere social event but a stark demonstration of absolute dominion.
Out in their domains, the Pulses wielded authority and command.
But here, within these walls, they were puppets on strings, obedient and trembling.
Even after the food was set before them, no fork moved.
The room remained frozen as the Blood Sovereign began eating with calm, measured motions, unbothered by the stifling silence.
A minute crawled by.
“Eat.”
The single word shattered the pause, an iron decree that brooked no argument.
Immediately, hands moved.
Forks clattered softly against plates, the quiet chorus of chewing filling the chamber.
Yet no eyes dared meet; heads remained bowed, posture stiff and submissive.
Dinner passed in this oppressive quiet, each movement measured, each breath held as if the walls themselves might listen.
At last, Lucien set down his utensils with deliberate grace and lifted a napkin to his lips, dabbing them with an imperious gesture.
“It was delicious.”
The words dropped like a gavel, final and unquestioned.
BAM!
All the maids lowered their heads to the floor, voices raised in unison with solemn devotion.
“Thank you for the honor, Sovereign.”
Lucien rose, the napkin slipping from his hand to land carelessly on the polished table.
The descendants rose instantly, heads bowed in a chorus of subservience.
Guards and servants echoed their deference with lowered bows.
Without a word, Lucien turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps resounding like thunder through the vast hall.
The moment the door shut behind him, the suffocating aura that had blanketed the room shattered, dissipating like smoke on a breeze.
Yet still the room held its breath, frozen in place until long after the echo faded, releasing their collective exhale.
Aric’s breaths came ragged, sweat slicking his skin as though he’d run a brutal race.
The Blood Sovereign had entered, spoken barely a dozen words, dined, and departed.
And yet the world had shifted.
To Aric, this ritual was a reminder carved deep into his soul—
No matter the cost, no matter the pain, he had to achieve the power Lucien wielded.
With fists clenched tight, he summoned his shattered composure and, without a single glance toward Vira’s seething glare, turned and exited the chamber.
The war within had only just begun.
- Writer
